Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Nick swallows roughly, scrubs his free hand across his beard. “I’m listening,” he says quietly, tightly.
I try to imagine I’m floating above the room, telling the story, but it’s too hard a trick to execute. The only way through it is, well, through it. “When I opened the door, I walked in on it.”
“Oh god,” Nick whispers, shock thick in his voice.
The memory. The images. The scene. My heart shatters all over again but I push on. “They were fighting in the kitchen. My father was still standing but clearly losing. He was bleeding. Joe had taken a knife from the counter,” I say, trying to tell the story in short bursts, in quick clinical details. “He’d stabbed my father multiple times. I screamed stop. Then I stopped thinking. I lunged, tried to grab the knife from him, but he spun around and attacked me.”
Nick stutters out a breath. Red billows from his eyes—a new kind of rage I’ve never seen in anyone. He clenches his fist. “He hurt you,” Nick hisses, reaching for my left shoulder instantly.
Nick obviously knows the outcome. I’m safe. I’m fine. But I can hear retribution forming on his tongue—where is he, I’ll find him, I’ll kill him.
“He went for my heart, but he missed. Badly. He got my shoulder,” I say, then I can’t stop the tears. I just can’t. They rain down as I choke out, “My father grabbed the knife from Joe as he lunged at me again. The knife fell to the floor, then Joe panicked. Ran from the apartment, down the hall to the stairs,” I cry. “I called 911, but the EMTs were already there. The cops too. My neighbors had heard and called. Everything happened in a blur. My dad and I were in the ambulance being rushed to the hospital. I held him as he…”
I stop to refuel. Nick’s clasping my hand, his gaze locked on mine.
And I will make it to the end of this story, dammit. No matter how hard the next part is. “He whispered something to me,” I say, barely audible.
“What did he say, sweetheart?” Nick asks as a tear rolls down his cheek.
I don’t know if I can speak through the rainfall. But I try. Dear god, I try, repeating his last words. “He said…I love you. Take care of Mom.”
“Oh, Layla,” Nick says, clasping my hand tighter, holding me so I won’t fall apart.
“And I promised I would,” I go on. “But I didn’t tell my mom he said that. It would have been too much for her to bear. Later, I told her that Dad said he loves us, and that’s not a lie. He died a few minutes after we arrived at the hospital.”
I’m near the end. I’m close, so close. The last part of the story should provide some closure. But it’s still awful in its own way.
Nick huffs out a breath. “What happened to Joe? Where is he?”
“After he left our building, he ran to the six line. He jumped in front of a subway train. He’s dead.”
“He’s in hell, where he belongs,” Nick says, full of righteous fury, then extraordinary gentleness when he adds, “And you’re here. Thank god you’re here. Thank god your father saved you.”
For the second time that night, Nick wraps me in a hug. I don’t let him go.
I don’t think I can. I’m so wrung out. So tired.
Sometime later, he carries me to bed, lays me down, and slides under the covers with me, holding me close as I drift off to sleep in his arms.
31
THANK YOU
Layla
In the half-light of the dawn peeking through my window, I rustle, shifting in the bed, wearing only a tank top and panties. I brushed my teeth in the middle of the night. Nick did too. Then we fell back in bed, only with fewer clothes on.
Nick stirs then blinks his eyes open. “Hi,” he whispers, voice rusty.
“Hi,” I murmur.
He’s behind me, spooning me, wearing his boxer briefs. He kisses my hair lightly then grazes his hand up my left arm, traveling higher, closer to the flower. “Can I touch you here?”
I didn’t want him to touch my tattoo in Miami. Or to find the scar it covers. Now, I do.
“Yes,” I say, granting permission I’ve never given anyone.
“Thank you,” he says, then drops the gentlest kiss to my flesh, dusting—I think—the petal of the blue daisy tattoo. I shiver at the zing of pleasure.
He pulls back, tracing his finger along the jagged cut, then down the stem to the musical notes at the base. “Why a daisy to cover up the scar? And musical notes?”
“Gerbera daisies are Harlow’s favorite flower. And the notes are for Ethan since he’s a musician.”
Nick hums softly, kissing the back of my neck with a new kind of reverence. “The ink is for them. Because they helped you through it,” he says.